


Strongly Worded Letter to Follow, or what got left out of epic poetry

by kuiske



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Nudity, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27949724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuiske/pseuds/kuiske
Summary: The High Kings and warriors of old hadneverhad to put up with something like this.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Thorin's Company
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Have A Happy Hobbit Holiday 2020





	Strongly Worded Letter to Follow, or what got left out of epic poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anon_e_mus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anon_e_mus/gifts).



Bilbo had been right.

Adventures truly _were_ nasty, disturbing, and uncomfortable things that made you late for dinner.

His backside ached from being jostled on ponyback up and down the endless hills all day long, and the rest of him ached from sleeping on the hard, lumpy ground, rarely all night long. Moreover, lunch was _not_ supposed to be hardtack munched – or painstakingly gnawed at the peril of his teeth – in the saddle, nor had anyone apparently informed the dwarves that skipping over dinner and straight into supper was not a thing that was done in polite society.

Not that they were in a _society_ at the moment, polite or otherwise.

Then, one morning about two weeks after the dwarves had raided his pantry, it started to rain, and Bilbo started to compose a strongly worded letter to the editor of every storybook and epic poem he had ever read in his life.

Dark and stormy nights were all well and good, but it never rained like this in the stories, steady and dull and unrelenting for hours and hours on end.

The High Kings and warriors of old had _never_ had to put up with something like this.

The dwarves complained and cursed and pulled their hoods over their heads, and Gandalf seemed to disappear under his wide-brimmed hat. Bilbo had neither a hood nor a hat, and his fine wool-velvet coat was soaked through within the hour. It should’ve been impossible for him to get any more wet, cold and miserable after that, yet somehow every minute saw him more so. Come noon, he was entertaining wistful fantasies about the possibility of Dragonfire looming at the end of their road, and when Thorin finally called for them to stop for the night, Bilbo would’ve been quite ready to sign Bag End over to Lobelia for a hot cup of tea, if she’d just then emerged from the bushes with a tea tray and the papers at hand.

Gandalf and Thorin stepped aside, probably to discuss something for tomorrow, and the other dwarves went to work setting up the camp like a well-oiled, if chaotic and raucous machine. Bilbo knew he should’ve been helping them however he could, but as it happened, all he _could_ do at the moment was pry his frozen fingers off the reins, tumble down from the saddle, and keep his teeth from chattering clean out of his skull.

“Cheer up, Bilbo, the rain’s letting up!” Kíli called out from behind a pile of hopelessly wet-looking firewood he’d gathered in record time. “Besides, I thought farmers liked it when it rains on spring! Good for the crops, or so I’ve heard.”

“I am not a farmer,” Bilbo said and tried to wipe his face with his shred of Bofur’s coat, which was a poor substitute for a proper handkerchief and furthermore, also dripping with water. “Nor am I a head of cabbage in need of watering, thank you very much.”

“No, Kíli’s the cabbage-head around here,” Fíli quipped and dodged a blindly aimed kick from his brother. “Come give us a hand with the ponies, they’re soaking wet and could catch their death if we don’t rub them down before night.”

“They aren’t the only ones,” Bilbo grumbled, but he had to admit that Myrtle was looking fairly soggy as well. “How are you so dry?”

“How are _you_ so wet?!” Fíli exclaimed and poked at Bilbo’s arm as if he was finding it surprising that rain could have such an effect. “Doesn’t your coat keep water at all?”

“What?!” Kíli sounded just as incredulous as he dropped his pile of wood at Glóin’s feet. “What about your walking holidays?! Doesn’t it ever rain on them?!”

“Nobody goes on a walking holiday when it looks like rain,” Bilbo said and tried to keep the misery in his voice to a minimum. “Respectable hobbits stay inside on a weather like this, and until _very recently_ , I was a respectable hobbit.”

“And this one was worried about a _handkerchief_ ,” Bofur said shaking his head. He took Myrtle’s reins and tossed them to Fíli. “You take care of the ponies, lads, I’ll see if we can turn this wet rat back into our burglar.”

Wet or dry, Bilbo took exception to being called a _rat_ , but not so much that he would’ve objected to Bofur marching him to where Glóin was, miraculously, succeeding at getting a fire started. Where he’d found dry kindling, Bilbo had no idea, but he was already coaxing a small flame into life, all the while muttering to his beard about how impossible it was to work with wood like this.

Peeling off his wet clothes was a hassle, and that was _before_ Dori stomped over as if summoned by the sorry state of his attire. Though it was also possible that Fíli and Kíli had sent him over.

“I’ll do what I can, but there’s no saving this coat,” he tutted disapprovingly, somehow throwing judgemental looks at Bilbo, Bofur, and the lump of soggy velvet in his hands all at once. “You could’ve said _something_ when it first started raining.”

Bilbo managed to sigh through his violent shivers. He was sure that ten full generations of Bagginses would be rolling in their graves if they could see him now, buck naked and drenched and freezing his toes off in the wilderness in a company of dwarves, being chastised for ruining his clothes in the rain. Even his Took ancestors might've been a _little_ scandalised.

“It’s not like complaining would’ve made it rain less, you know?”

“He doesn’t know,” Nori said from behind him and wrapped a blessedly dry, enormous green cloak around Bilbo’s shoulders. “Take it from me, he’s never tried ‘not complaining’, and if he did, I’m sure he wouldn’t like it.”

“Whose cloak is that?” Dori asked suspiciously. “I’m sure you didn’t _ask_ before going through someone’s packs?”

“ _See?_ ” Nori rolled his eyes before winking at Bilbo. “And don’t tear your beard over it, Dwalin’s busy gathering firewood, which means he’s holding an armful sticks while watching Thorin’s back. He wouldn’t have wanted to be distracted from his business with me asking if he’d rather lend his spare cloak or have our hobbit suffer the night naked.”

If Dori had something to say to that – which he probably did – the others’ laughter drowned him out.

Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure, whether he appreciated all of the underlying sentiment, but he definitely appreciated the cloak. It was a little scratchy and smelled like sheep, but it was also big enough to cover him entirely and it was coated with something that kept out the persistent drizzle.

“Are you sure Dwalin won’t mind?” he asked once he had thawed enough to regain some feeling in his nose and toes and fingers. The cloak was lovely, but the mental image of a furious giant of a dwarf was decidedly _not_. “I can tell Nori to put it back?”

“If you manage _that_ you should have no trouble talking the Dragon out of the Mountain,” Dori harrumphed.

“Ehhh, I wouldn’t worry,” Bofur said and dug out his pipe. “Dwalin’s not half as dangerous as the Dragon. A quarter, at most.”

“He's much nearer by, though,” Glóin put in cheerfully. “So, there’s that to consider.”

“Helpful,” Bilbo grumbled, though he couldn’t help smiling a little. “So very helpful.”

“Look, he lives!” Bofur grinned. “Now, how about a story to help pass the time?”

 _That_ was still surprising.

It had started completely by accident. Somehow Bilbo’s offhand lament about being more insane than a Brandybuck on a boat – a lament he hadn’t thought anyone was listening, let alone paying attention to – had snowballed into him being asked to tell stories about the Shire. And not just any stories. The dwarves were oddly invested in petty gossip about pettier feuds between relatives and neighbours, to the point that Bilbo almost regretted steering clear of the passive-aggressive tea parties that fuelled said feuds.

Bilbo was quiet for a moment and watched branches steam around the small fire before Glóin deemed them dry enough and fed them to the flames.

He was still fairly wet and cold and miserable.

He was _definitely_ still missing dinner and his soft, warm bed.

But when Bofur wrapped his free arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer to his side, the adventure barely felt nasty or uncomfortable at all.

“Well,” Bilbo begun. “Have I told you about what happened after my cousin Fortinbras' last birthday party?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm convinced that the hobbit high society Drama would make for perfect campfire soap opera.


End file.
